


Something happened on the day he died...

by flash in the pan (MadameLaMielleuse)



Category: David Bowie (Musician)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 13:19:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6705946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameLaMielleuse/pseuds/flash%20in%20the%20pan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...spirit rose a metre and stepped aside. Somebody else took his place, and bravely cried: "I'm a blackstar! I'm a blackstar!" – What happens, when an artist dies? A dream about artistic heritage (and indebtedness), inspiration and finally: goodbye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something happened on the day he died...

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a dream, which itself was inspired by a wonderful photo taken by Myriam Santos-Kayda, a handful of words.

[ **Today, in honor of David Bowie, please take a little time to work on that weird thing you secretly create, whatever it is. He'd want you to.** ](https://twitter.com/roseveleth/status/686530492263460864)

 

When he shows up, I'm standing almost invisible in front of the stage and watch my friends as they scurry around and prepare for the concert. Our hands cling to various utensils: the painters with canvases that are almost too big for them to carry, musicians with guitars. Twelve strings, mainly. Of course. My own fingers grip tightly around a stack of papers. It should’ve been a novel, one day, but for now it’s still no more than a much-thumbed loose-leaf collection, but above all it is unfinished.

This whole event has the charm of a performance without prior dress rehearsal. Our voices sit squeaky in our throats. Many of us still have red noses and swollen eyes. Others sneak around with stoic expressions. Without exception, we all make an effort to pretend to know what we need to do. But the truth is: we are small and awkward and no, we are not prepared to do all this.

His arrival is sudden and simultaneously it seems to me as if he had been there all the time, just unnoticed. I turn around, and there he is, in the narrow passage between the seats leading towards the stage. He is a product of surreal hope and I know it, but it still nice to see him.

He wears a comfy-looking sweater and an attitude that says that he does not know what to do with himself. After all the time he has spent right there in the spotlight, he remains motionless, undecided whether he really belongs there. As I approach him, his face brightens. He reminds me of a boy who lost his mother in a shopping mall and is now picked up by an anxious staff: he knows that everything will be okay.

 _Hello, I'm Alexandria. Another Alexandria, obviously. Alexandria not-Jones, if you want._ The sentence is on my lips – it is tempting to say it at last, but the circumstances hold me back. He’s woven of dream threads; who knows how fragile my illusion is. Without saying anything, I take a look around the empty audience ranks. He needs a seat. Not just any seat: he should be able to see everything, but at the same time I don’t want him to be tempted to interfere. I am considering a few options before I decide. I point towards it, and to my surprise he grabs my hand and takes me with him. His fingers between mine feel real.

He sits down, but our fingers remain intertwined. A feeling bursts in my chest and washes over me when I muster him. I do not want to smile, but I can’t help it. He is beautiful, even in death. The next moment he looks at me, how I am still standing. The confusion has returned into his eyes, and my short glimpse of joy turns into gut-wrenching sadness. I have not brought him where he wanted to go. He doesn’t understand what all of this is, who I am and what he is doing here. And yet he seems to know that this realm is all he has left. We are the second choice. I do not take it personally – just like him, I would rather know that he can go back home to the real Alexandria. The thought that we can do nothing for him to ease this pain seems to suffocate me. _We are inadequate in every aspect_ , I think and look back towards the stage, to the preparations. _It was too early. We are not ready._

All of a sudden I cannot bear to be with him any longer. I squeeze his hand and let go of him. “You can sit back, Mister Jones,” I say. It is more of a promise to both of us than anything else. “We’ll take it from here.”

**Author's Note:**

> For all those of you who see themselves on that stage; the dreamers, the not-yet-brave artists of any kind; all the nobody people, all the somebody people, and for everybody who was born upside down – or the wrong way round.


End file.
